


boat full of stars

by softvoicesdie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Slow Burn, What's new, but lucius can burn idc, but not really, by that i mean he is tolerable and not quite as abusive, draco is a precocious tosser, eventual drarry but it's not a big thing, eventual fix-it because i just want these people to be happy, it made me sad to kill off narcissa, molly wants to be everyone's mum, snape is sort of redeemed, the bar is low folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:20:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26542066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softvoicesdie/pseuds/softvoicesdie
Summary: If sending him off to live with the Muggle-loving Weasleys is the universe’s idea of cosmic punishment for murdering his father, Draco Malfoy has to admit it’s outdone itself. Dumbledore seems to think this is an opportunity for Draco to “open his mind”, or something equally inane that translates to becoming a blood traitor. Fat chance.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 31





	1. Summer '91: I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title stolen from the poem 'small shoes' by maggie smith!

Draco Malfoy was eleven years old, bound for Hogwarts at the summer’s end, and he was dreaming of ways to kill his father.

At the breakfast table, Draco mulled over poison: cyanide in his tea, or rat killer slipped into soup. Lucius nodded a stiff goodnight and Draco saw his father’s throat cleaved in two and spurting blood. When they sat in the front room, metres apart and staring stonily into the fire, he imagined pushing him in, watching as his skin peeled back to expose porous white bone.

His mother would disapprove, if she were around to see. She seemed to think respectable wizarding children waited until they were of age to become cold-blooded murderers. But she _wasn’t_ around, and that was rather the point of the whole endeavour.

He hadn’t had any confirmation that his father did it, exactly; there was no definitive proof -- Lucius had no doubt made sure of that. But the satisfaction that had flitted across his father’s face for just a second at the funeral when he thought no one could see was proof enough for Draco. And so rather than wasting any time bothering with grief, or tears, he’d stewed in his fury and plotted his revenge.

It was a good thing his father had always been a shoddy Legilimens; it meant he didn’t see it coming until he was keeled over, prostrated on the marble tile.

The killing had been easy enough, in the end -- to muster up enough hate to use a killing curse, he just had to remember his mother’s coffin being lowered into the ground and her unmarked body in the casket. He’d used his father’s wand, made it look like suicide. It seemed fitting to give Lucius what he would’ve dubbed a coward’s end, and it had the fortunate side-effect of sparing Draco from becoming the youngest wizard ever sentenced to life in Azkaban. It didn’t do much to satisfy his urges for violent justice, but he’d decided he could settle.

The hard part was what came after. He’d considered what to do next for weeks, how to best play the part of grieving, completely-and-utterly-innocent son. Despite all his preparation he was still unsure of himself as he sent out a distress signal with his father’s wand and shuffled into the corner. He sat there, rigid with anticipation, until the Aurors came.

When they managed to break through the Manor’s wards, they tripped over his father’s body and Draco had to bite his cheek to hide a smirk. Luckily, it took them a while to catch sight of him in the gloom, leaving him plenty of time to rearrange his face into a sufficiently tormented expression. One of them leaned down to ask him what he saw, introducing himself as Auror Moody, and Draco stared back, feigning uncertainty and shock.

“I just came out here and he was on the ground,” he said, hesitant in all the right places. “I think... I think he did it himself.”

The Aurors seemed appeased by Draco’s performance, although Moody looked at him with his swivelling magic eye in a calculating and entirely disconcerting manner. Draco didn’t like that. He resolved to stay silent for the foreseeable future to prevent himself from inadvertently putting his foot in it.

He didn’t say another word, even as Auror Dawlish Apparated to the Ministry with Draco in tow; even as Healers murmured over him and filled his body with a powerful Sleeping Draught that weighed him down like lead; even as Dawlish pulled a blanket over him and patted his hair awkwardly and said, “Whatever happened, son, it wasn’t your fault.”

Everything was going according to plan.

*

He woke in the fold-out cot in Dawlish’s office to find a copy of the Daily Prophet left on his desk, headline emblazoned with the words _DRACO MALFOY: THE BOY WHO KILLED?_ There was a note attached in hastily scrawled script: _Leak in the ministry??_ Draco blanched -- he should’ve known Rita Skeeter’s rumour mill would have a field day. And if Harry Potter was anything to go by, his new nickname was bound to stick. Staving off panic, he decided his plans could still be salvageable -- he’d just have to proceed with the utmost caution.

What he didn’t anticipate, though, was Dawlish barging into the room with Moody on his heels and informing him that he was to be interrogated. The man at least had the grace to look apologetic while he shoved Veritaserum down his throat.

Draco waged a fierce battle with his mind and thanked Merlin for his father’s determination to train him to shake off an Imperius, because Draco _stupidly_ hadn’t accounted for the possibility of the most paranoid Auror in magical Britain (maybe the world) taking a vested interest in the case. The potion clouded his thoughts in a similar way to the Unforgivable, until all he could hear was a wheedling voice. _Tell them the truth, Draco_ , it said. _Wouldn’t it feel good to come clean?_

It took all of his willpower to ignore it, but if his words were a little garbled or halting, Dawlish didn’t seem to notice. Moody’s face was impassive, and he insisted Draco repeat his story twice more. After the third, he seemed satisfied, and Draco’s mind was restored to blissful clarity with the wave of a wand.

He was reminded of something his mother told him, years ago. _It serves us well to be underestimated_ , she’d said. _It’s how the Dark Lord rose to power, and it’s how we’ve survived what came after he fell._ He supposed it’s how he was surviving, too, even now -- it would never occur to the Aurors to imagine that an eleven-year-old could successfully evade the effects of Veritaserum.

“Sorry,” Moody said, looking decidedly not sorry. “Just a formality.”

*

He endured another day and a night in the cramped office. Dawlish bloviated about the search for new guardians (the Bones were his first choice, but his Sneakoscope lit up when he visited them, and it must be malfunctioning, because it keeps lighting up when he visits the Weasleys, but he’ll take no chances, so he tried the Abbots next, but they’re setting off on a year-long sabbatical in Rome, and so he’s stuck brainstorming for now, and if Draco had any ideas, if he could please let him know).

As a matter of fact, Draco did have an idea -- actually, he had several: each a more creative place up which he’d like Dawlish to take his wand and shove it.

He didn’t say that, of course, just nodded along and looked appropriately grateful. He hadn’t envisioned this -- he’d expected to be allowed to return to Malfoy Manor, maybe with a Ministry-appointed guardian, maybe alone with the house elves -- and he cursed his stupidity. With any luck, at least, he’d end up with a pureblood family; preferably one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but he supposed he could settle.

When the Weasley woman barged into Dawlish's office the next day and demanded to know why she hadn’t been considered an option for guardianship, Draco was hardly even surprised. If this was the universe’s idea of cosmic punishment, well, it had outdone itself.

No one consulted him while they signed paper after paper, which was probably wise -- he was barely restraining himself from making a scathing comment about blood traitors. He decided it was probably more dignified to resign himself to his fate rather than going kicking and screaming; even so, he couldn’t resist a final churlish scowl at the pair of them as he stepped into the green blaze of the fireplace and muttered “The Burrow”.

He stepped out in a room that looked like it had been decorated by a house elf with particularly poor taste and a penchant for doilies. Almost every item of furniture had the distinct look of being more magical repair than original parts. It was the kitchen, he realised with equal parts dismay and disdain, and it was the dining room too, and was that a settee? He thought longingly of the Manor and its sparse furnishings and long hallways; it might not have felt like home without his mother, but at least he hadn’t gotten a headache just looking at the walls.

Then the Weasley woman almost tumbled into him. He sniffed. Of course she couldn’t even use the Floo Network with any semblance of poise.

“Ginny?” she said, and he wondered if she’d utterly lost it when he realised that what he took to be a red cushion on the settee was actually a very small Weasley staring at him unblinkingly.

“Draco, this is Ginny,” the woman said brightly, and he flinched at the sound of his name coming out of her vapid Muggle-loving mouth. He shot Ginny an ornery glare which she returned in full force, and he was mildly impressed at her for a moment before he remembered to be surly. “She’s a year younger, and there’s Ron, who’s your age – you’ll both be starting Hogwarts together! – and then there’s Fred and George, they’re going into third year, and don’t you listen to a word either of them says. Let’s see, next is Percy, he’ll look after you, he’s been made Prefect this year!” She paused, and peered at him as if for approval or congratulations. He grimaced in return. “Charlie and Bill have both graduated, so you can have your pick of their bedrooms.”

“Huzzah,” he said, and Mrs Weasley either missed his sarcasm or chose to ignore it, because she cheerily led him up the rickety flights of stairs. After three or four floors, they reached a landing with two doors.

“Either of these, then, dear.”

Neither of them were even half the size of his old bedroom, with its silk sheets and bay windows and fireplace tended to by house elves. He ended up choosing the lesser of evils -- it had a window, which was more than the other could say for itself. She told him it was Charlie’s. He made a mental note to Scourgify everything the second he got his own wand, lest the blood traitor rub off on him.

“I’ll leave you to settle in, then,” Mrs Weasley said. “Professor Dumbledore is going to pop round later with some of your things, and he’ll want to speak to you then, too.”

“Thrilling,” he said to her retreating back.

He hoped Dumbledore tried something so he had an excuse to hex him.

*

Draco languished in his room for the next few hours, flicking idly through some of the books on the shelves and staring at the ceiling. He thought he ought to feel triumphant -- he did manage to pull off a serious crime without a hitch -- but he couldn’t muster up anything besides apathy. He wondered if avenging his mother was worth living out the rest of his youth with a pack of blood traitors.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the distinct _crack_ of Apparition from downstairs. Now he had to face Dumbledore without breaking a single object or setting off a single accidental curse. A tall order, but maybe the crash course in prudence he got at a hundred pureblood dinner parties was going to come in handy after all.

“Draco,” Mrs Weasley shouted. “Professor Dumbledore is here!”

He stalked down the stairs to the kitchen. He’d never met the man before, but he’d heard enough about his eccentricities to be appropriately apprehensive.

Dumbledore looked over his glasses, his eyes twinkling far too much for Draco’s liking. “Draco,” he said warmly.

“Mr Malfoy would suffice,” he said, in his best imitation of his father.

Dumbledore just raised an eyebrow. “Have a seat, Mr Malfoy,” he said, and Draco flounced onto the chair across from him.

“Your house elves gathered your things. If there’s anything missing, I do believe they’ll respond to your command. You appear to have inherited them, after all, along with the rest of the Manor.”

“Actually, I had a question about that,” Draco said, and scowled. “Is there any particular reason why I can’t just live there, or am I being foisted on the Weasleys because you enjoy causing people pain?”

Dumbledore looked momentarily taken aback, and it felt like a victory. It was disappointing when he regained his blithe expression and answered Draco as if nothing happened. He was proving to be more difficult to antagonise than anticipated. “Well, Mr Malfoy, there are two reasons. It may surprise you, but neither have been engineered to make you suffer. Firstly, it would be highly improper to let an eleven-year-old wizard live alone--”

“Alone? Who said anything about being alone? I’d have the house elves, and they’d be far better at looking after me than present company, clearly!” He waved a hand at the dirty socks strewn across the floor.

“The second reason, Mr Malfoy, if you’d care to let me finish.” He paused, and peered at him. Draco scowled again. “The rumours surrounding your father’s death, however unfounded they may be, have made you some very powerful enemies. I’m well aware of the wards on Malfoy Manor, but wards are only as strong as the wizards in residence, and there would be scant few willing to live there with you among memories of Voldemort’s most loyal. You would be a sitting duck. You likely wouldn’t survive a week.”

Draco couldn’t argue with that, as much as he’d like to. He would rather like to retain the ability to breathe. Even if it meant he had to live in the human equivalent of a pigsty. He compromised by crossing his arms with as much petulance as he could muster and decided he’d consider the implications of all his new enemies later, when he was alone.

“I suspect you know a little more about Lucius’s death than you’re letting on, Draco,” Dumbledore said.

“And what gives you that idea?” said Draco. He felt his heart rate quicken. He was so preoccupied with studiously staring at the floor that he didn’t even bother to remind Dumbledore to call him Mr Malfoy.

“When I was a child…” Dumbledore paused and sighed heavily. “When I was a child, my sister died.”

Draco looked up.

“We were duelling, my brother and a friend and I, and she got in the way. She had been hurt terribly, you see, when she was very young, and she was full of rage, and raw power. To this day, I don’t know who cast the curse that killed her. But it may well have been I.” Dumbledore looked at him sadly; his eyes were twinkling in a very different way. “I have let that rot me from the inside for a century, Draco. But I was far older than you when it happened, and I had learned control. My sister was innocent. If one thing is true about your father, it is that he was far from innocent.”

“You’re wrong,” said Draco, without conviction. “I didn’t do anything.”

“If my suspicions are correct, which they almost always are, your motivations for what you did could be considered noble,” Dumbledore said. Draco met his eyes, and they seemed to answer his unspoken question -- somehow, he knew how his mother died. “There’s a great deal of witches and wizards who’d like to shake your hand, Draco.”

“Those same witches and wizards would’ve been happy to see my mother buried.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Are you going to tell anyone?” Draco’s surly pretences had been entirely discarded, and he looked at Dumbledore with apprehension clear on his face.

“No. As far as I’m concerned, Lucius was a bereaved widower who could no longer stand his grief.”

“Why?”

“I believe in redemption,” said Dumbledore simply. “And I believe that this is an opportunity for you.” He gestured at their surroundings. “A chance for you to open your mind, perhaps, unlearn some of your parents’ doctrine.”

Draco scoffed, and Dumbledore raised an eyebrow again.

“It’s been a pleasure, Mr Malfoy. I expect you’d like some time to settle in now. I look forward to seeing you at the commencement of the school year.”

He made to leave before Dumbledore spoke again. “Oh, and Mr Malfoy?”

Draco turned around, eyeing him with barely-concealed suspicion.

“I’d appreciate it if what I’ve divulged to you today remains between the two of us.”

He considered the old man for a moment. “You keep my secret, and I’ll keep yours.”

Dumbledore nodded gravely. “Of course.”

*

Two days had passed, and Draco had been subsisting on whatever food he could scrounge at dawn and pointedly ignoring the trays of meals at his door. He’d succeeded in avoiding any Weasleys, but he was beginning to feel almost envious when he saw them traipse outside for Quidditch at all hours. He knew something had to change before he went mad from lack of human contact or starved to death or jumped out the window just for a bloody change of scenery; he just didn’t particularly want to be the one to swallow his pride and go downstairs for a meal like he was one of them. So it was a relief when Mrs Weasley knocked on his door that evening.

“Draco, dear,” she said through the closed door. “I know this isn’t your home, not yet. But we’d like it very much if you joined us for dinner.”

He didn’t say anything, and he held his breath until he heard her footsteps down the hall. But a minute later, he slipped out of his room and followed her.

The kitchen was crowded and noisy; it was a far cry from the tense, quiet dining room at the Manor. It was so noisy, in fact, that they didn’t notice his presence until he pulled out a chair and took a seat.

“You came,” Mrs Weasley said. Her relief was so obvious and so pathetic that Draco had to fight renewed urges for violence.

He nodded, not meeting her eyes.

“Well, that’s a relief,” said one of the twins -- Draco couldn’t tell which one. “Now Mum can stop spending every meal bawling her eyes out.”

“Yeah, it’s been a bit of a downer,” said the other.

Mrs Weasley shot them both a look that Draco would find terrifying if he hadn’t just been informed that she had cried over him multiple times.

(She was, in fact, fighting back tears at that very moment -- when he had sat down she had been struck by just how _small_ he looked.)

“Anyway,” she said brightly, as if nothing had happened. “Arthur isn’t here -- he’s got a lot on his plate at the Ministry at the moment -- but he’ll be sorry he missed your first proper meal with us!”

He was regretting caving and coming downstairs, what with the sheer amount of emotion that had already been displayed, when suddenly there was a hand extended across the table and practically up his nose.

“Percy,” the voice belonging to the hand said. “It’s a pleasure.”

He stared stonily back at Percy without shaking until he gave up and returned his hand to its rightful place. Stupid Weasleys and their freakishly long limbs. At least Ron and Ginny made no attempts at politeness, electing instead to watch him like he might start shooting killing curses if they took their eyes away.

An hour later and more full than he had been in a week, he grudgingly admitted to himself that, for a blood traitor, Mrs Weasley made a good meal.


	2. Summer '91: II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not a new chapter, sorry! just split the old one into two because i can't live up to the 6,000 word chapter precedent i set. new one coming soon i swear!

The Hogwarts letters arrived on schedule and brought with them promises of visits to Diagon Alley. Draco was itching to get his hands on a wand, and he wouldn’t complain about a snake, either. Mostly, he was excited to have a reason to leave his room. He might have been eating with them, but he hadn’t yet sunk low enough to socialise with the Weasleys.

(Elsewhere, a scrawny boy with a lightning scar had just received the shock of his life.)

Mrs Weasley had been leaving cups of tea outside Draco’s room every morning. Determinedly kind though she was, at first he’d wondered if they were poisoned. It took two days before he was bored enough to find out. They were, evidently, free of contamination, and he was still baffled at how she knew he took his tea weak with two sugars. He couldn’t picture one of the Death Eater enemies people kept telling him he’d made owling to update the Weasleys on his tea preferences.

Before they set off for Diagon Alley, all eight of them, Mrs Weasley took him aside. “Draco, dear, I know you’re accustomed to a certain...lifestyle,” she said. “But, you know, Arthur’s wages only stretch so far. We’ll have enough for everything on your school list, of course, but if you want any extras...Dumbledore mentioned you’ve been left some money?”

Draco was desperate to make a contemptuous remark but there was a voice in his head reminding him that these were the people responsible for feeding him. Instead, he just said, looking at the floor, “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ve got plenty in my vault for everything, I can buy my books too.” He’d rather not be further indebted to them anyway, but he didn’t say that bit out loud.

Her face sagged with relief in a way that was wholly embarrassing for the both of them. Or at least it ought to be embarrassing for the both of them, but the Weasleys seemed immune to any form of self-awareness. Perhaps it was the red hair. “Oh, good,” Mrs Weasley said. “I was so worried you’d think it was personal, or something -- it’s the same for all of the others, I promise.”

He almost wished it was personal. At least then she’d have shown evidence of some kind of spine.

When they made it to Diagon Alley, it was almost noon, and the sun hurt Draco’s eyes after so long in the dim bedroom. It was the first time he’d been somewhere familiar in weeks, and as much as he tried to ignore it, it made his chest hurt a little.

They split into two groups, and to his relief he was with Mr Weasley. He might not have been much better but he hadn’t cried yet, and that had become Draco’s new metric for tolerability. They made their way first to Gringotts, Ron and Percy in tow, and he emptied Galleons upon Galleons from his heaping vault. Ron’s envious glance didn’t escape him. He ignored it anyway.

“I’m going to get Percy an owl,” said Mr Weasley. “A reward for being made prefect. Would you boys like to go over to the Menagerie in the meantime?”

“With _him_?” Ron asked, dismayed.

Mr Weasley glared. “Yes, with _him_.”

Draco glared, too. Ron begrudgingly set off for the Magical Menagerie, walking a few steps ahead.

“Don’t want to be seen with me, Weasley? Anyone would think _I’m_ the disgrace to my bloodline here.”

From his position behind Ron, he could see the tips of his ears turn red. “Sod off, Malfoy.”

“I bloody wish I could.” It was truer than Draco would like to admit. “But I can’t, so shut up so I can buy a snake.”

They emerged from the shop minutes later; miraculously, neither were sporting black eyes or scratched limbs. Draco had a tiny scarlet kingsnake twisted around his hand.

“What’ll you call her?” Ron asked. “Dad, maybe? Reminder of your first murder?”

Unfortunately for Ron, Mrs Weasley chose that moment to reemerge into the street from Flourish and Blotts. “Ronald Weasley! The day we start believing Rita Skeeter in this household is the day hell freezes over! Apologise to Draco!”

Draco smirked as Ron cowered under Mrs Weasley’s glare and muttered a half-hearted apology.

“If you’re quite finished,” she said imperiously, “shall we find your father and go to Ollivander’s?”

An hour later, they were laden with new wands, school books and cauldrons.

“Just robes left, then,” Mr Weasley said. “Here’s Madam Malkin’s now.”

Draco and Ron were being thoroughly poked and prodded, snake curled at Draco’s side and Mr Weasley across the street in deep conversation with a pair of Muggle parents, when the bell at the door jingled. A scruffy boy wearing faded and stretched Muggle clothes walked in.

“Er, could I have a set of Hogwarts robes, please?” he said to no one in particular. Madam Malkin gestured to a chair, and he was forced into it by an especially aggressive tape measure.

“First year?” said Draco.

“Me?” The boy looked shocked at being addressed. “Well, er, yes, I s’pose I am.”

“What house are you hoping for? I’ll be Slytherin, of course.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” said Ron. “Ignore him,” he said to the boy, “he’s a prat. Everyone knows Slytherins are evil.”

“But your parents are _our_ kind, of course,” Draco said, less of a question than a statement.

“Well... I didn’t know them, really, but they were magic, if that’s what you mean.” He looked thoroughly confused.

“Ignore him,” Ron said again. Madam Malkin finished with their robes, and they rose to pay. “Might see you on the train, yeah? Nice to meet you.”

“Bye,” said the boy, who ducked his head shyly.

Outside, they tore Mr Weasley away from the Muggles and were making their way to the Leaky Cauldron when Draco was tapped on the shoulder. He turned to find himself face to face with a man he recognised as Avery, a close acquaintance of his father, who leered down at him, teeth bared.

“Er, hello,” Draco said falteringly. His snake hissed from its vantage point on his shoulder.

“That’s all you’ve got?” Avery sneered. “Killed the Dark Lord's most faithful and all you can manage is a hello?” He grabbed at Draco’s arm and twisted the flesh painfully. “I want a bloody apology.”

Suddenly there were hands at Draco’s other arm and he started before he saw Mrs Weasley’s face, twisted in ire. He’d never been so relieved to see a Weasley.

“Get away from him, you brute,” she said, teeth gritted and drawing herself up to her full height. “Confronting a _child_ in the _street_? Coward.”

Avery sneered again, but stalked away. Draco tried to hide how much he was shaking by shoving his hands in his pockets.

“What in Merlin’s name is the world coming to,” Mrs Weasley muttered darkly. She caught sight of Draco’s expression and her face softened. “Oh, dear,” she said, “come here.” And before he could protest, he was being hugged by a blood traitor in the middle of Diagon Alley.

He’d be loath to admit it, but his hands weren’t shaking any more when she pulled away.

*

The rest of the summer passed quickly; Mr and Mrs Weasley seemed content to leave him to his own devices, which Draco was grateful for, and he spent his time thinking about anything but his mother and father. He had taken to reading in the apple orchard behind the house for hours at a time, where the sunlight danced across the pages of his textbooks and no Weasleys bothered to come and make noise. He’d joined them for a game of Quidditch only once, when he was feeling particularly desperate. He’d almost turned back at their incredulous faces, but rationalised that now they’d seen him, leaving would probably be more humiliating.

“Stopped being a prat and decided to join us, Malfoy?” Fred had asked.

Percy glared at him from his position under a tree in a way that was so reminiscent of Mrs Weasley that Draco had to bite back a laugh.

“Only because I’ve got nothing better to do,” Draco said loftily.

“Sure,” said Ron. Ginny blinked owlishly at him from beside her brothers.

“I still think you’re blood traitors,” he said.

“Well,” said George, “I’d rather be a blood traitor than a smarmy wanker.” There was no real malice in his voice, though, and Draco suspected they were all under strict instructions from Mrs Weasley to be civil.

“Shame that you’re both, then,” Draco said. “Anyway, I’m going to beat you all.”

They played a rough, tense game, four to one, Percy opting out and watching from the shady sidelines instead. Draco lost, but only just, and even Ron looked impressed that he held his own against the four of them. Fred and George offered him a grin, and he almost smiled back before he caught himself and hastily retreated to his dusty room high up in the house.

Once he was alone, though, he let the smile stretch across his face, his cheeks flushed with the first real fun he’d had in Merlin knows how long, and tried not to think about what his mother would have said.

September 1st dawned and brought with it clear skies and a hint of frost that hung in the air. Draco woke before the sun had even risen, and he lay in his bed, the springs poking into his back as usual, and contemplated the day ahead.

He hadn’t seen any of his childhood friends since his mother’s funeral, where they’d come with their parents to offer up perfunctory sympathies and consolations. He’d spent the service sitting stiffly beside his father; neither of them had wept, and Lucius’s face had been an inscrutable mask. Draco was sure his own had looked much the same. After, though, he and Pansy had escaped the oppressive silence of the graveyard and gone to sit behind the groundskeeper’s shed, pulling at the faded tufts of grass. Pansy had made him laugh, and he’d felt immediately guilty, but he was grateful for it all the same. She had owled him almost every day since, long, rambling letters that detailed the mundanities of her day -- evidently her method of checking on him without having to broach any uncomfortable topics. They were impossibly boring, but they’d become a comforting fixture of his life, a break from the murderous thoughts that often had threatened to overwhelm him. The letters had stopped after he was taken into Ministry custody, and he wasn’t sure if it was of her own volition, or if her parents had forbidden her from contacting him. He hoped against hope it was the latter. He couldn’t imagine the next seven years at Hogwarts without Pansy by his side.

Greg and Vincent hadn’t owled him since either, but that wasn’t exactly unusual -- neither of them had the attention span or drive (or, he thought privately, literacy skills) to write him much. He hadn’t been close enough with any of the others to notice any absence; Blaise, Theodore and he had been friends by circumstance only -- they would nod to each other at social events, but they didn’t have anything in common, not the way he and Pansy did.

He didn’t know how any of them would treat him now; whether the fact that he was technically Head of House Malfoy (when he turned seventeen, anyway), and sole heir to all the power with which that title was associated, would prevent their parents from instructing them to ostracise him. Judging from the way Avery had reacted in Diagon Alley that day, and from Dumbledore’s warnings, he might not be so lucky. Oh well, he thought, he could start from the bottom and claw his way to the top, could he not? Hadn’t the Dark Lord himself done that very thing? He would simply have to prove himself -- he knew he was powerful, and he could be charismatic if necessary. He’d just have to publicly distance himself from the Weasleys, as far as he could while still under their roof.

*

“Now, Draco,” Mrs Weasley said, “I’ve told the others to take close care of you. I know they might’ve been a little difficult with you at first, but I know they’d just love to be best of friends with you! Wouldn’t you, Ron, dear?” She aimed a particularly pointed glare at Ron.

Draco groaned internally. “I can take care of myself,” he said, scowling at the floor.

“I know, dear,” she said, and patted him on the head. Patted! Like he was some kind of small and yappy dog, not a descendant of the most powerful pureblood family in wizarding Britain. He bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from snapping at her.

They were all stood in the front room, in that awkward limbo that settles over a house immediately before its occupants leave for a long time; first it had been Ron who’d realised he’d forgotten his Chudley Cannons pyjama pants that he allegedly couldn’t live without, and now George was upstairs scrummaging around in his bedroom for his favourite socks. Percy, like Draco, had been packed for days, and he was sitting smugly by the door.

Even the ever-placid Mr Weasley was growing impatient, and Draco was relieved when they managed to load the car and set off, as horrific as it was to be seen in a Muggle vehicle. His mother would’ve had an aneurysm.

More horrific even than the origins of the car, though, was being sandwiched between Ron and Fred in the stretched-out back seat. After the fifth time of being elbowed as the twins jostled, he was seriously weighing the pros and cons of Stupefying the lot of them. It didn’t help that Ron kept looking at him like he was a ticking time bomb. He didn’t mind the thought of inspiring fear in the Weasleys, but he’d much prefer to do it from a safe distance.

After what felt like days, they pulled up at the Kings Cross car park. The sight of the station reignited the anxieties he’d quashed that morning -- would Pansy still like him? Would he be snubbed by all of Slytherin house? -- and for a second, he almost longed for the safety of the car. He shook himself and used the Occlumency techniques his father had demanded he master to shove his fears into a box at the back of his mind.

The Weasleys strode off and Draco stayed a few steps behind, trying very hard to look as if he wasn’t associated with them. Logically he knew this was futile -- thanks to the Prophet, there probably wasn’t a single magical person in the station who didn’t know he’d been taken in by the Weasleys -- but it was better than coming off as though he enjoyed their company.

He did wish they’d stop talking so very loudly about Muggles, though. Didn’t they have even a modicum of subtlety? To make matters worse, Mrs Weasley started fawning over a scrawny boy who looked decidedly lost and oddly familiar. Draco realised he was the boy from Madam Malkin’s, and he was disappointed to see he’d made no progress in his personal appearance. Just the sight of his messy hair felt like a personal affront to Draco, who rather prided himself on his perfect locks.

He hung back as the Weasleys started running at the wall gracelessly and instead took it at a walk, re-emerging onto Platform 9 ¾ amidst a cloud of scarlet smoke. Almost immediately, he locked eyes with Pansy Parkinson. Everything in him wanted to cower, to make himself small and impossible to see; instead, he drew himself up with all the grace that befitted a Malfoy and stood straight, nodded stiffly at her.

Hurt flashed across her face -- or, at least, he thought it did; it was gone too fast for him to be sure. She stiffened too, and glanced at her parents, who hadn’t yet noticed the object of their daughter’s gaze.

He was wrenched from his silent confrontation by Mrs Weasley’s hand on his shoulder; he squirmed under it and saw Pansy try (and fail) to hide her smirk from the corner of his eye.

“Goodbye, Draco, dear,” Mrs Weasley said. “Have an excellent term! We’ll write.”

“Don’t bother,” he muttered, and her face fell. She quickly rearranged it into a twisted, forced smile, and he almost -- _almost_ \-- felt a pang of guilt.

“Alright, well, if you change your mind, we’ll be here,” she said.

Without looking back, he hoisted his trunk onto the train and chose the first empty carriage he could find, preparing himself to spend the journey alone.

The carriage door slid open, and he looked up to see Pansy. She blanched at the sight of him.

“Erm, sorry,” she said. “I was just looking for a carriage.”

“Pansy,” Draco said, and to his disgust his eyes grew hot. “You could sit here.”

She, too, looked close to tears. “I can’t, Draco,” she said quietly. “You know I can’t.”

“I didn’t even do it,” he said.

She gave him a wobbly smile. “My parents don’t care either way. They said the attention was enough. They can’t afford to get caught up in it.”

He looked at the ground and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He didn’t look up as the carriage door shuddered closed and he was alone once more. It didn’t stay that way for long, though -- within minutes, the boy from Madam Malkins had sat across from him.

“Er, hi,” the boy said. “Sorry, everywhere else is full.”

“It’s fine, no one else is going to sit in here anyway,” Draco said, and extended a hand. “Draco Malfoy.”

“I remember, from the robes shop,” he said, and shook his hand. “Harry Potter.”

Draco just barely caught himself before his jaw could drop. “You…” He surveyed his shabby clothes and scuffed trainers. “ _You’re_ Harry Potter?”

“So everybody keeps saying,” the boy -- Harry -- said, and smiled ruefully.

“Oh,” said Draco, dumbfounded.

They both looked up as the carriage door opened again. Draco suppressed a sigh at the sight of Ron.

“Is it true, what everybody’s saying?” Ron said, looking at Harry and ignoring Draco entirely. “Are you Harry Potter?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Want to sit down?”

Ron cast a dubious glance at Draco, but seemed to decide the novelty of the Boy Who Lived was worth the sacrifice of enduring his company.

“Ron Weasley,” he said, and took a seat next to Harry, looking everywhere but at Draco.

“So,” said Harry, oblivious to any tension, “how do you two know each other?”

“Er,” said Ron. “Long story. My parents adopted him, I s’pose.”

“So you’re brothers? That must be nice.”

“I wouldn’t call him my brother, no,” Draco said, glaring out the window.

“He’s a ginormous prat,” Ron said. “No idea why Mum wanted a Slytherin murderer in the family.”

“Shut. Up.” Draco ground his teeth. “If you know what’s good for you, Weasley, you’ll stop talking.”

Harry looked decidedly uncomfortable. They subsided into silence for a time, and Draco debated leaving to find another carriage, but the thought of the whispers that no doubt awaited him was enough to keep him tethered to the seat.

Ron broke the silence. “So d’you really have the--”

“The what?” Harry said, bemused.

“The _scar_ ,” Ron said reverently.

“Oh,” Harry said, and pushed back his hair. Draco snuck a glance despite himself.

“Wicked,” said Ron. (Privately, Draco might’ve agreed. Maybe.)

*

Hours and an awkward visit from Hermione Granger later, the train began to slow to a stop. Ron and Harry had talked the whole way, while Draco stared at the countryside and resigned himself to the fact that he and Harry Potter would not be friends. He’d been stupid to hope otherwise. Harry was clearly happy to consort with the wrong sort of people, and Draco was fine with that. Perfectly, absolutely, utterly fine.

He continued to reassure himself about just how fine he was even as he walked through Hogsmeade station behind the oaf of a groundskeeper and clambered into a boat to cross the lake; even as he registered Pansy sitting next to him, determinedly not meeting his eyes; even as the boat rocked unsteadily across the lake’s inky black waters.

But when he looked up and saw the impossible grandeur of Hogwarts (and Draco Malfoy was a boy well accustomed to impossible grandeur) there were no thoughts left in his mind at all.


	3. First Year

There was very little that Severus Snape disliked more than the beginning of a new school year. After weeks of long silent stretches in which he could brew and concoct and wander the halls at leisure, the sudden assault of thundering feet and incessant chatter was as welcome as a bludger to the head. Worse still was the thought of myriad new students whose abysmal essays he’d have to mark and whose presence he’d have to endure without violence.

This year, though, things were particularly dismal. Severus had been dreading the arrival of the Potter spawn since he’d been reminded of his imminent approach by Dumbledore; after working studiously at forgetting his existence for ten years, the news had come as something of a shock. Then the Malfoy boy had embroiled himself in the biggest scandal the Prophet had seen since Barty Crouch Jnr was thrown in Azkaban. Severus wouldn’t be terribly surprised if Draco really had done it, despite being let free by the Ministry; if anyone could breed an eleven-year-old capable of murder, it was Lucius. From Narcissa, he would have learned how to get away with it. 

He’d thought the circumstances surrounding Narcissa’s death had been suspicious when he’d caught wind of it -- the official story had been a freak potions accident, ingestion of poison, but Narcissa had been Slughorn’s best and brightest until Severus came along. Clearly, Draco hadn’t accepted the explanation either. (And it wasn’t like Severus could fault him for it -- Draco wasn’t the only one who had dabbled in patricide.)

Regardless, it was already shaping up to be an eventful year and the Sorting hadn’t even begun.

He arrived a little late to the Great Hall, lost in his musings, and reluctantly took the only remaining seat next to Quirrel. The man hadn’t been half bad when he taught Muggle Studies, but his new, nervous disposition was frankly intolerable. Somehow, he’d still managed to inspire enough confidence in Dumbledore to be appointed Defence teacher, despite the abundance of suitable candidates (particularly those by the name of Snape). Severus privately theorised Dumbledore was hoping the curse on the position would do away with him.

“S-s-severus!” Quirrel said, jumping at his arrival and almost knocking over his goblet.

“Quirinus,” he said evenly. 

“L-l-looking forward t-to the S-s-sorting?” 

“Hardly,” Severus said, barely sparing him a glance, for the doors had just opened and let in a clamouring rush of first years. 

There were two children in the crowd who were instantly recognisable -- the first was another Weasley, no doubt a Gryffindor with no regard for rules or decorum, deep in conversation with another boy. The second was Draco Malfoy. Severus hadn’t seen him since he was an infant, when Severus had still moved in the Malfoys’ circles, but his pale hair and pointed features were unmistakable.

Much to his chagrin, he couldn’t stop his eyes from roving over the sea of heads until they found messy, black hair that was all too familiar. He’d prepared for this moment, had bolstered his Occlumency defences and the mental boxes in which he stored his childhood, but the sight was still no easier to endure than a Cruciatus. At least he’d managed not to flinch. 

He turned away sharply and caught Dumbledore peering at him from down the table, expression unreadable. Severus glowered back.

*

When Draco was little, he’d thought of Malfoy Manor like a fortress, whose solid walls offered protection from even the most determined of invaders. At seven, he’d tried for a whole year to convince his parents to build a moat around its base. He’d developed a fear of the dark almost as soon as he’d learned to speak, and it was only his fervent trust in the safety of the Manor that allowed him to get to sleep at night. At his mother’s funeral, though, he’d realised there wasn’t much use being afraid of the monsters outside, when the monsters had found their way inside, too. 

After that, his house had stopped feeling like home.

But now, walking through Hogwarts’ heavy front doors, he felt that same sense of safety he’d missed so keenly settle over his shoulders like a thick woolen blanket. It was as if the castle had whispered in his ear: _welcome home_. 

He was so taken with his surroundings that he couldn’t even bring himself to mind when Pansy stood off to the side, whispering with Blaise and Theo and glancing over at him every so often. Behind him, he could hear the mudblood -- Granger -- chattering incessantly about what she’d read, and to his right were Potter and Ron, seeming about as awed as Draco himself. 

In another lifetime, he might’ve been the type to go around to the other students and pompously introduce himself, offer a hand to shake or an appraising glance (or a look of disdain, depending on the surname of the other party). But this was a Draco whose name had been muddied by aspersions cast by Rita Skeeter, a Draco who was living with blood traitors and no longer had a leg to stand on when it came to purity and class; so instead, he looked at the floor and counted the moments until he could retreat to his dorm, cast a shield charm around his four-poster, and sink into sleep.

His breath was stolen once more as they walked into the Great Hall and were greeted by an expanse of sky peppered with stars. Maybe his senses were just dulled after weeks in the Weasley hovel, but he was sure that even the Manor had nothing on this.

He watched the stars blink in and out as names were called and the crowd of first years slowly dwindled. “Bulstrode, Millicent” went to Slytherin, and Draco saw in her a potential ally when derisive whispers broke out along the house table. He had heard the tale of the disgraced Bulstrode widow’s illegitimate child with a Muggle more than once growing up; every (pureblood) parent with an ounce of self respect used it as a cautionary tale. Before, he wouldn’t have spared her even a glance, but he supposed he had to take his friends where he could get them now, if he didn’t want to be completely alone.

“Granger, Hermione” went to Gryffindor, because of course she did.

All too soon, McGonagall called “Malfoy, Draco”, and he trudged up the passage as murmurs rippled through the hall. “My mum reckons he definitely did it,” one student said, and he could clearly distinguish Rita Skeeter’s name in several voices. Then the hat fell over his head, and he was plunged into empty darkness.

“Well,” the hat’s voice echoed in his mind, “I’ve heard much about you, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco tried to conjure up a mental eye roll as best he could. 

“There’s a good mind here; you’re a fast learner, certainly,” it mused, ignoring him. “It’s courage that would serve you well in the coming years, though.”

“Not Gryffindor,” he thought at it. “Anything but that.”

“Very well,” said the hat. “Better be--”

“SLYTHERIN!”

And the world returned in all its colour and noise. There was a smattering of applause, from the few first years who hadn’t been initiated into the world of house politics, and from Vincent and Greg, before Blaise shot them a look. They always had been a bit slow on the uptake. Draco sighed, and sat down at the far end of the table, away from everyone.

It wasn’t as if this had been unexpected -- he’d been bound for Slytherin practically before he could walk. Ambition could be innate, of course, but it could also be learned, and Merlin knew most purebloods did a good job of teaching it. He just wished it were under different circumstances, where he could be sitting next to Pansy, elbowing her and making fun of the other first years.

“Parkinson, Pansy,” McGonagall said, and Draco looked up. She offered him a tremulous little smile and sat under the hat, who deliberated for barely ten seconds before crying out “SLYTHERIN!”

This time, the table erupted in raucous applause. She grinned, properly for the first time he’d seen today, and walked over. When she faltered for a second, looking between Draco and their -- her -- other friends, Draco felt hope sting the back of his throat. It was for nothing, though, because not even a second later she’d slid onto the bench beside Theo.

He had no time to process his disappointment before McGonagall was saying “Potter, Harry!” The whispers when Draco had been called weren’t half as bad as these ones -- people from all four houses were craning their necks for a glimpse at the Boy-Who-Lived.

After almost five minutes, in which the occupants of the room held a collective breath, the hat opened its mouth.

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Draco sighed.

(If Harry had thought _not Slytherin_ a little less fiercely after seeing a version of Draco Malfoy who was a little less abrasive, a little less arrogant, it wasn’t enough to change anything.)

*

Draco hardly tasted the food at the feast -- he couldn’t even remember what he’d eaten. He’d been too busy trying to ignore the loneliness and shame congealing at the pit of his stomach. Everyone in the school thought he was a murderer. They weren’t wrong, either. 

He didn’t regret it. He didn’t think he ever would. So why did he feel like this?

He trudged down the stairs behind the fifth year prefect, careful to stick to the edges of the crowd so no one could hex him from behind. They reached a dead end, where there was a colossal stone monolith that appeared to be standing freely in the centre of the passageway. The prefect rapped on it, and the first years looked around at each other bemusedly. 

“Salazar,” said the prefect to the wall, and then, to the group of them: “That’s the password. Don’t forget it. Don’t pass it on to--”

He was cut off as the stone seemed to split in two, each piece shuddering along the floor to reveal a gap big enough to step through. The room that lay beyond was shrouded in darkness. Draco’s jaw dropped. Other students began to peer around the other side of the monolith in amazement, where logically there should be the room the entryway led to, but where in actuality there was only empty air. His head spun -- he didn’t even want to _think_ about the amount of complex spellwork that would’ve gone into spatial manipulation on that scale. Bloody Slytherins and their flair for dramatics.

The prefect laughed. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

That was a strong contender for understatement of the century. 

Marvelling among themselves, they filed through the opening and into the common room. Draco found his jaw dropping again, and could distinctly hear his father hissing about decorum in the back of his mind. He couldn’t help himself, though: the room was magnificent. It wasn’t the dank, slimy lair he’d anticipated when he’d realised they were heading for the dungeons; instead, a soft green light emanated from the windows and enveloped everything in a hazy glow that gave the room a dream-like quality. The walls were covered in ornate carvings of snakes that appeared to shift and move under the ethereal mist, and the ceilings were at least two stories high. A skylight let in more of the green glow, along with glinting leaves that drifted lazily to the floor before vanishing. A small pool of bubbling silver was cordoned off in the middle of the room, around which several sofas were positioned. If done poorly, it might’ve felt claustrophobic, but instead it seemed almost deceptively large.

Draco was sure he’d been staring, shell-shocked, for well over a minute, but around him the other first years looked to be doing the same.

He bet the Gryffindor common room had _nothing_ on this.

The lot of them were pulled from their reverie by Snape’s entrance, who Draco knew by sight only from spying on his father’s gatherings as a child. He strode over to them in a billowing cloud of black robes and raised an eyebrow.

“If you would all kindly stop gawping,” he said dryly. “Welcome to Slytherin. Many of you have been destined for this house since birth, while for others” -- here his eyes landed on Millicent Bulstrode -- “the Sorting may have come as a surprise. No matter the circumstance, you are all allies now. It makes no difference to me what goes on behind the closed doors of this common room, but outside, you must present a united front to the school. The other houses will be searching for reasons to hate you. You must not give them any.”

He looked at Draco for a long moment. 

“Your actions reflect on not only me, but on the rest of your housemates. Do not forget it.” With that, he stalked back through the door from which he came.

Several of the students exchanged incredulous looks. Draco shoved down the discomfort gnawing at his stomach that had been reinvigorated by Snape’s searching glare, and followed the prefect up the stairs to the dormitories.

The first year boys dorm wasn’t quite as impressive as the common room, but it certainly was far from bland. Five four-posters lined the walls, with heavy curtains of emerald green and matching duvets. The beds were dark wood, and carved into their headboards were the same snakes that decorated the walls of the common room. One wall was filled with large arched windows from which the same misty green light streamed, imbuing the room with a soft glow.

The others made for their trunks at the ends of the beds, rifling through for their pyjamas and toothbrushes and hastily clambering into bed. Draco did the same, suddenly feeling bone-tired and desperately weary. He knew tomorrow would be another long day of whispered taunts, but for now, the world had shrunk to the size of his bed and its warm, clean sheets.

*

Monday dawned, and brought with it a sense of anxiety that lay curled and heavy in Draco’s stomach like a snake. Draco’s own snake, who he’d named Asmodeus, had crawled into the pocket of his robes as he dressed and refused to budge.

Draco waited until the other four boys had made their way down to the Great Hall before leaving himself; he didn’t want to risk being hexed before classes had even begun. Granted, he could probably hold his own against even Blaise, the cleverest of the lot, but he didn’t fancy the odds of four on one.

He followed a sixth-year prefect out, not trusting his own ability to make it down to the Hall alone and hoping that she would be too responsible to try anything. He was right -- she pretended not to notice him, but he didn’t miss the way she kept sneaking glances to make sure he was safely following. 

The Great Hall was already full of noise, and it trickled out through the nearby corridors as they approached. Draco was thankful for the bustle; it meant no one noticed him slipping in and taking a seat at an unoccupied end of the Slytherin table. He stared resolutely at his breakfast and tried very hard not to look over at where Pansy sat, talking animatedly with Blaise and Daphne Greengrass. 

Someone slid onto the bench next to him, and he looked up with a start. Millicent Bulstrode stared back at him, unsmiling.

“Er,” he said, his years of etiquette training flying out the window. He supposed it had become sort of redundant the moment he’d committed murder.

“Malfoy,” she said, and went back to eating her breakfast. He blinked, then did the same.

Before long, the plates had vanished and Snape was winding through the benches, handing out timetables. He reached the end where they sat and cast an appraising glance toward them.

“Mr Malfoy and Miss Bulstrode,” he said, a hint of a sneer on his face. “What a curious pair.”

Before Draco could react, he’d stalked off, leaving two timetables on the table before them. Without warning, a large tawny owl landed inches from his plate, parchment tied to its leg. 

“Who’s writing to _you_ , Malfoy?” Blaise smirked. The others laughed, except Millicent, who glared back at them, and Pansy, who stared down at her porridge.

“Shut up, Zabini, or I’ll hex you into next week,” said Millicent. 

Draco stared at her in surprise. Annoyance pricked at him -- he didn’t need anyone fighting his battles for him, let alone a _half-blood_. “You shut up, Bulstrode,” he said, and left before another word could be said, just barely remembering to take his timetable with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i may have taken some liberties with the description of the Slytherin Common Room, but i hate thinking of it as some damp mouldy dungeon and, hey, what’s the use of artistic license if you don’t get creative. the description was heavily inspired by this absolutely stunning piece - https://www.reddit.com/r/harrypotter/comments/c46bfe/painting_made_by_me_slytherin_common_room/


End file.
